Will A Ps3 Arcade Stick

Final Report melancholy

Mio padre mi sorride complice, dall’altro lato del tavolo: “Hai visto Fratena?”. Usa lo stesso tono con cui, da bambino, mi chiedeva retoricamente: “Meh, sei contento mo?”. Quando dava per scontato che lo fossi.
Il giro sulle macchine a scontro della villa.
Il grande sogno domenicale me and my cousin Guido.
At the end of the ride, returned to earth, the voice of my father hung implacable: "Meh, are you happy mo?". It was an opening, of course, but also a closing credit. From the series: you did what you wanted, now you turn off. And do not piss me off with 'sti whims dude. I understand the hint then. In this
this room I do not know how to interpret it. "You saw brotherhood?", "Are you happy mo?". "Will you stop to break a good time?". Fabio brotherhood, Buitre of the captains, our number 7 in the years gone by. In the heroic years. The only idol I have ever had.
Yes, of course, I try to cancellare l’infatuazione – che era mia ed era collettiva, a parziale discolpa – per quell’essere immondo che risponde al nome di Beppe Signori. È rossonero , cantavamo come degli idioti all’Olimpico, mentre quello ci pugnalava alle spalle ed esultava sotto la Nord. Basta, finito, cancellato. Mi dissi, in un amen. Fabio Fratena, il biondo, non l’avrebbe mai fatto. Altra tempra di persona, altro calcio.
Finì la sua carriera in un sabato di Pasqua, in quel di Caserta. Tornò da nobile comparsa nella prima serie B di Zeman, quella con la Pasta Delverde sulle maglie. A godersi un traguardo che più di ogni altro aveva meritato. È tornato ancora nell’intervallo di Foggia-Cavese, together with other ex, specially to celebrate the 90 years of the Sport.
My father smiles at me. "Well, you saw brotherhood?". It's like the clocks turn back, to rediscover in our streets different and mutually unintelligible - the different, opposite ways of being fans of a team, a jersey - the exact point in common, the primordial spark of complicity makes us, in spite of everything similar. I do not come to smile back. And not because I do not want to feel part of that whole. I'm not a snob. Yes, dad is a football table, now, able to swallow in one gulp the three hours of direct Telefoggia dull, The Chronicles of Mario on Teleblu Schena, even the replica of the nine and a half, and then Baldassarre, Marsico, to Gercap. But to return to the stage, no, do not want to know. I talk to my ultras. The trips, the miles, the choirs, without being able to recognize the players, nor want, not remembering whole quarter of an hour of playing. Sometimes, at this stage, I happen to focus on what happens on the field. To concentrate on the serious, such as when studying Byzantine history. In those minutes, I decide that I have an impression, an opinion, which I will need to prove to my father that I follow, I participate, I understand. It is an ancient custom, those who drag themselves compulsively. As the habit of to memorize the numbers drawn on the wheel of Bari, said later in his grandfather Antonio, in an era pre-Teletext. And when I realized that I continued to do so even years after his grandfather was gone, I was scared before the certainties of the brain, despite the loss of this steel.
But we digress.
Returning to the point: no, I wanted to respond, I have not seen brotherhood. I have not even noticed it was there. I was down, looking for illegal liquor, and I am well pleased when I heard an onion explode somewhere. Under the tree there is a fine in addition, I continued to sing with others. Indicate the grandstand, where I imagined the satisfaction chewing bitter di Pasquale Casillo. E gli altri spettatori della curva ci puntavano, ci chiedevano di smetterla con quelle canzonacce, che così stavamo rovinando tutto. Gridavano “Zeman Zeman” come a esorcizzare la nostra stessa presenza, ma senza gli ultras nessun coro può ambire a durare. E l’altoparlante della tribuna gracchiava qualcosa. No, non ho sentito il nome di Fabio Fratena. Non ne ho sentito nessuno. Perché a un certo punto è nato il solito faccia a faccia. Quei tifosi che di lato ci insultavano, perché la contestazione alla dirigenza, i cori contro Maroni e la Tessera, dal loro punto di vista, stavano stravolgendo le abitudini dello Zaccheria, rendendolo di botto un serbatoio di tensioni inesplose. E non quel catino infernale che dovrebbe essere. Anche nel giorno della gran festa. E, probabilmente mentre il mio idolo sfilava a centrocampo, io attaccavo a testa bassa.
Il solito concetto, ripetuto nei mesi fino a perdere ogni pretesa d’immanenza: caro il mio tesserato, quando Casillo ti ha ricattato promettendoti un posto di curva in cambio di una schedatura, sapevi benissimo a cosa andavi incontro. Quando hai risposto di “si” al sondaggio anti-ultras di Maroni, sapevi che ci avresti inferto un colpo probabilmente mortale. Ora che vuoi? Perché vorresti che sospendessimo tutto, che soffocassimo noi stessi, per il bene dei giocatori, dell’allenatore famoso e della dirigenza? E gli sguardi si fanno astiosi, perplessi. Divisi. Come gli abitanti di Berlino negli anni Sessanta, da un muro invisibile.
Un po’ come con mio padre, a cui non so spiegare perché non ho visto Fratena e no, non sono affatto contento mo. Ci hanno gridato “Fuori! Fuori!”. Siamo il sale di troppo che guasta la minestra. Altro che scintilla primordiale, altro che spirito comune, altro che complicità, parti differenti del tutto. Maroni, Casillo, chi per loro, hanno smascherato l’indole di questa gente. E mi hanno tolto quel gusto di sentirmi uno della comunità. Quella forza che oltrepassa i ruoli che ci siamo scelti. La foggianità, che poi a Natale sembra ancora più evidente, quasi lampante. Ora è la diffidenza a farla da padrone, mista all’entusiasmo artefatto di una piazza ansiosa di rivivere i fasti del passato. A prezzo d’estinzione. Siamo stati sfortunati.
Ma certe volte, non lo nego, vorrei tornare a quelle domeniche di fine anni Ottanta, quando a casa di nonna si parlava della partita. E ne parlava Nicola, che era un ultrà ed era stato a Licata e a Giarre, ma anche papà, il ragazzo di Paola, zia Anna, che era una semplice osservatrice. Pezzi diversi di un ingranaggio collettivo, che era la passione per la maglia, per la città, prima che Maglia e Città prendessero la maiuscola e fossero convertite in codice. Ecco. Avrei voluto rispondere a mio padre: “Certo che l’ho visto Fabio Fratena”. E risentirmi bambino, per l’intero spazio della risposta. Invece to admit to myself that something is broken. It is difficult to repair.

How Thick Is A Tech Deck

Grenoble. Report of a journey.

Grenoble, December 16 to 18

Black of Troy and the wine of Isere, and the brawn of Faeto, Alpine salami, cheese and cheese on the table common, while in their hands parade photographs, mixed languages, is trudging explanations. To say that this is Cremona, on the day of the playoffs and here they are in Rennes. Cheers and hugs when friends come knocking at the door and we have not seen since July. From Casalecchio. This is the first time in France, the first time we look from this friendship. Really want to know, to know us better. To achieve a destinazione abbiamo marciato lungo l’Adriatica stretta nella morsa, a 30 all’ora dietro i mezzi spargisale. Dieci ore di cammino per la colazione alla Bolognina, dove ci scambiano per una compagnia teatrale o, tutt’al più, cinematografica. Pagliacci. La strada per Torino, le tristi Langhe di pianura, l’esoso Frejus. E poi, finalmente, la France. In alto i bicchieri, e la casa si riempie di fumo e racconti, mescolati l’uno all’altro in un’unica splendida cacofonia. Fuori, il freddo non è così glaciale come ce l’aspettavamo. I giacconi da neve d’alta quota restano negli zaini, a ricordarci i colbacchi di Totò e Peppino. Possiamo affrontare i marciapiedi, muoverci verso il centro città. Alle nostre spalle scorre il Donc. Silenziosamente. Le case sono moderne in questa zona. In Place Notre Dame si aprono le porte del Centenaire. Calore improvviso. Altre strette di mano, altri abbracci. È il loro feudo. La loro base. Il loro chiosco di Salvatore. Birra e Chartreuse, che sembra assenzio. 55°. L’ideale per affrontare la prima serata grenoblese. Per sentirci a casa. In pochi minuti siamo sparsi per il locale, come se lo conoscessimo da sempre. Sono incredibili queste alchimie. Intuire un’affinità, approfondirla, viverla, e scoprire che – per quanti chilometri possano dividerci – c’è un’idea che è quasi un ideale, un misto di valori e cultura di strada, che supera le barriere, even national ones, and unites in common. Does resemble this plaza in the center of Grenoble, a projection of our street Pagano. Ultras. A word that inspired today as yesterday in a dull conformists fear dictated by ignorance, which in this Italian has been the target of a crusade by the rare previous ministerial, designed to bring to school the rest of the active society, more and more numbed by the media fear . But in these parts is still envied the name of an extraordinary youth movement. And aggregation, social, and values. And share similar principles makes men (and women) more comprehensive. Able to understand without a translator. Outside to smoke, while the temperature falls and wobbles. It looks like a city quiet this. Tidy, clean, not too noisy. Yet even in large metropolitan crowd, out of the metaphorical walls of the city, made in the large suburb of neighboring countries, there are suburbs. There is the fire of revolt that adds to the difficult integration of communities. 40 thousand Italians, with their neighborhood pizzerias on the river, just below the cable car lines. And a return of machismo, a misguided sense of belonging, the younger generations. In those grandchildren of Sicilians who have never seen Sicily. In Orthodoxy, the third generation of Algerians. The gang playing the Bronx. But it is a rich city, Grenoble, industrious, which offers opportunities and not asking much. The boys and girls of the Red Kaos include all sources, light years away from sectarianism Community. The French thoroughbreds and those from Corato. They are hooligans, and they look to Italy. In Genoa, Turin, Pisa. The cradle of a movement that sometimes we underestimate ourselves in its true scope. I almost embarrassed to tell us the pass, mortal outrage almost immediately from our world. A veil of sadness for those curves now devoid of passion, annihilated by the arrogance of those who exchanged a mandate from Parliament to the right not to give respect. Considerations heavy, alternating with the original basis to the questions. We are curious, really, really proud of this, that know "crushed" between the ancient glory of Saint Etienne, the modern and contemporary dell'Olimpique Marseille Lyon. And happy to answer questions that relate to our reality, his passion. It's time for dinner, and the caravan of cars heads out of town, on high ground. The restaurant is full, our friends have occupied two rooms. The flat land on the dinner tables, while the rising chorus. Those in French and Italian ones. Even those in dialect. The snow stopped the romance. It is destructive and intense, like the one that falls to us once every three years. We must abandon the station, the balcony and city lights from above. In ten minutes we will be blocked from the world. So, back down, winding between white-washed already that tend to make us more than it should be on your toes. Here are accustomed to, although this year, we are told, has not yet begun to get serious. We land in a pub. The city center is covered with snow. It begins to slip. And, consequently, to laugh at the misfortunes of others. Seems to take life from the cold does. We do not drink on the street, so into the crowd is impressive. The boys keep us from putting hands in wallets, it seems almost a form of religion. Their hospitality is very Mediterranean. Our throats and our stomachs they forget the element of water. And at night we talk again, scroll through photos of their trips, the old curve. Find out they are on bad terms with the club's owner, a Japanese who hardly ever set foot in the stadium, and that the structure of the futuristic "Des Alpes" has taken away a lot 'of that poem that was in the past . Are relegated from Ligue 1 last year and this year instead of traveling the last lower division. A heavy crisis, which reduced bone lovers. A plot that we know well in Foggia. Even the fans, as the ultras, seems to know no boundaries. Friday is the day of the game. You play to 20, compared to Dijon, which for us is the Dijon. A glass of mulled wine to wake up, and a little 'play to the tourists. But the snow fall throughout the night makes the ideal location on the Isar bridge of a battle of snowballs with no holds barred. Centenaire to find the fanzine. The curve West greets friends Foggia, it says. In Italian. There is also the title dell'Uesse, and talk of our town and its football history. We sing and toast, while the snow is flying on the windows and flooded the streets. "But we are sure that you play?" And all respond that yes, this is an area used to certain climatic events, the soil has warmed. They say, and any of us understand that the seats are heated and have a foretaste of the Gyser in the ass. Gathered in the bottom of the forum locally, the joint committee, study the game. "Where is the Snai?", We call in French. We must bet on resurgence. A final result, a partial. And we assemble the debate on the exact result. Back to mind a challenge from another time, in the "Zaccheria" of the past. It was the first year of the series B Zeman on the bench. Foggia was the veteran of several setbacks, and addressed the house in Messina. The trend is not challenged, he decided to support those guys. It was the turning point of the season. We won 3-1, also marked the Lords. "Then she's gone, we also play the 3-1 correct score." Similarity. Grenoblois I laugh, do not believe in revenge. The biancoblu well to be the last, very marked. Three goals are too many. Darkness falls. And we are ready to move in procession to the stadium. Under the fountain in the square we lined up. Between choruses and handclaps cut the old city, where the impression of strangeness increase rather than decrease. The few passers-by, the clerks and the orders behind the heated display cases, observe without participation. It must be hard to be hooligans here. But the kids believe in it, and sing, and clap their hands. We light a torch to illuminate the road. We raise the standards. Never enrolled. But how nice it is ... There is a fully painted park near the stadium lights and futuristic. We mention the draft Casillo, skeptical. Then it is again time to battle. Foggia vs Grenoble, with blows of assault with bayonets, hand to hand and snowballs, posted under the eyes of the stewards. There are many here. There is also a department anti-ultras, borrowed from Paris. They look professional. We overcome the barriers and look out on the plant. A little jewel in proportion, from 20 thousand seats. It takes me time to understand what's so different from the stage of my house. Lack the barriers of division between the field and the stands. The goalkeeper who is training is at your doorstep. We explain that the Grenoble, was not enough, is in training emergency. At least seven unavailable, and many spring. We move in curves, we reach the team. "You have to win," we cry in Foggia. Those we feel, they turn around, look at us. Needless to say, do not understand. Then we are dedicated to the children of the school mascot: We support the first kick! The stands are half empty. In turn there is the bar. Mulled wine and loaf, as we never do at home. The banquet of the fanzine Red Kaos produces new and scarves. The group supplies. Inside there is a small stage for lanciacori. We look with envy. It's time to gamble. And the curve, blanket, began to scream. The roof creates a nice overall, and even if they are to sing in a hundred, they feel. And how. Teams in the field. We, unfamiliar languages, we strive to follow the words, but they are i ritornelli quelli che intoniamo in blocco. Il Grenoble, in campo, ci mette l’anima. Una prova d’agonismo che ci coinvolge, acuita dal fatto che c’è finanche qualche giocatore senza nome dietro la maglia. Non professionisti. Poco alla volta ci appassioniamo, e quando il bolide da trenta metri incrocia il sette, esultiamo. Ha segnato un ragazzo che, ci dicono, è l’unico nativo di Grenoble, della banlieue. L’unico al quale si tributa un coro. Finisce il tempo, torniamo al bar. Il primo pronostico si è rivelato fondato. Ma la ripresa riserva altre sorprese. Il ragazzotto di Grenoble segna la sua personale doppietta, poi è il Digione a rifarsi sotto, a colpire una traversa, ad accorciare le distanze e fallire nearly the same. It's a fun game. The boys pay homage to a banner and a nice pair of chorus. We returned, happy and confident. And at the end, a shot from outside to fill the net in the intersection. It is the 3-1 correct score. We look at each other during the crush. Too bad the lady of the tobacconist has told us: "In France you can not play the exact result." Final whistle and team under the curve. Patience, we are satisfied of the 60 euro collected. We would like to say: "Tonight we will offer you a ride", but do not allow it. So the Irish pub where we spend the evening and the night (and where the "unlucky" Charlotte has decided to celebrate her birthday that night!) we are still guests. Guests of this reality, clean cheerful and passionate, and proud young man, who gave us back a bit 'of enthusiasm than at home, banned from travel, loyalty-card owners and presidents, we had lost. Even so, hats off to the Red Kaos. Merci beaucoup. Really.

Victoria Paris-tracy Adams

More on New Era (the day of protest II)

words.

are stones, they usually say. They are important, "said Nanni Moretti. Tattered crazy, stupid, rowdy, delinquents. So yesterday Don Pasquale, in the picturesque dopogara press conference. Offenders. The Gordian knot: the gradual progress, fleeting shots with small, minimalist, from one term to another in a progression meaning, that nel'economia of a speech made in one go, it seems logical and consequential. And instead of hiding the criminalization of a whole. What we are accused and we all know enough already summarized: the lighting of a firecracker and two smoke bombs that have caused companies to the beauty of 3,500 euro fine from the league. In a few frantic days, we came to be criminals accused of "vandalism". As if our main task was to destroy a car, set fire to bins, not to rob stores but to slash hunger. One of two things: either the wording still hold true, then the public conscience should rise to claim a redefinition, despite the appeal of the new-old salesman, or indeed the concept of crime has spread widely recognized without notice, coming to understand anything against the portfolio of Don Pasquale Casillo. Portfolio from which sooner or later, but it is entirely personal opinion, will pull a rabbit out.

money.

The alpha and omega of everything. Also spoke of this. And so. He admitted that he spent at the time, but guaranteed to do so. How and when will. Meanwhile, he blathered credit endless claims by the community. The community is tight around him to continue to thank him, to kiss feet like a certain statues of saints, to be consumed. And on the day of protest, has isolated the ultras with the stroke of theater: the announcement of the construction of the new stadium. As someone who, in the credibility of several chips, raised in the dark. He asked the press, in essence, to become a union corruption in his service. And judging by the quality of an adversarial process, made a futile request. Unnecessary. A local journalist no one ever came to mind, until now, to dig under the guise of folklore that the return of this character raises captains to discover the true intentions and change the orbit advent administrative, economic and financial implications on the city streets, accordingly. They think the circus, our journalists. You can bet that they would continue to do so without stress employers. The city is back to where - in his words - to redo the money that was stolen, is kidnapped. Stockholm syndrome, doctors say. In the mercy of her captor. That, like some magicians who use hypnosis, can afford to overthrow him any abuse. In exchange for a full consent, no ifs, ands or buts. An absence of critical spirit, an enthusiasm that is typical of humoral football fans. But that clashes with everything else, when the new lord uses football to come to raise elephants.

division.

When you say, it was said, "all united under one flag." The stadium, the popular sectors, such as the legendary agent affratellante: the rich, the poor, the conservative, progressive, educated, the ignorant. Side by side. To fly the same flag. Worship rhetoric of the good old days. Strapaese. But there was an element of truth. This is undeniable. The card, which I'm getting tired even to speak, he retracted the common feeling. Mistake of paying insufficient attention to nature not to notice sull'attimo. Moreover, when faced with a choice of citizenship that would have required the barricades on the street, with the look and lightness of those who choose a movie from Blockbuster, is inevitable. It is too late. And what we saw yesterday on the sidelines of the "Zaccheria, with whole sectors which called for the ultras to leave out of the box, as if they were the only dissonant note in a romance to music and text, is not the inevitable consequence of the fracture consumed July. People love the carriers of dreams, that often coincide with the snake oil salesmen. And the people of the stages is the same as the ballot box. Realists who are opposed are accused of defeatism, to be of chronic troublemaker. It is ignored, minimized, invited to sit away from the masters of New Age. "It is building a great project," said the Pulcinella capopopolo. And, since di ogni rosa si immagina il profumo ma non le spine, nel dubbio è meglio bandire gli scettici. Poco conta dire a questa piazza che la realtà parla la lingua dell’inganno. A quelli che gridavano “Fuori! Fuori!” o facevano gestacci poco ne cale. Vogliono sognare con don Pasquale, sognare il sogno di don Pasquale. E si schierano con lui anche quando devono sborsare 30 euro per una gradinata, 15 per una curva; anche quando denuncia e diffida, quando licenzia e offende. È il prezzo da pagare. Il tributo al sogno di tornare grandi. A noi non rimane che aprire gli occhi e considerare i fatti per quelli che sono: non esiste l’unica grande fede che affratella l’ultras e il tifoso, il ricco e il povero. Esistiamo noi, la nostra minority under siege (by Maroni, the patron and the ordinary citizens feel "right"). And there is the rest, with his approach to Sunday sports. And between us and them, the trench.

Warning for the foreseeable future.

Nobody let us acknowledge, our way of extremist love this shirt. Why would only serve as an alibi. The gods take credit for the disgust yesterday I lived elsewhere. And you do not need to raise the dust of civilization to learn or conspiracy cheap. Everyone assumes its responsibilities. That's when the stadium will not be a funeral organized a tea room open, a database of prospective living autopsy you can not help regretting that the good old days of classical mythology. And maybe you take the opportunity to examine a conscience and understanding of those obsequious has paved the path next to the now, and almost expected, disappearance of typhus.

How To Mount A Sacrificial Anode To A Boat

sad note on the new era

In the first year of the Age of the card, it will be ironic to die one by one, under "friendly fire".
As in the trenches of World War II. General of cavalry academy and wipes table, graduated crazy ideological and cynical for greed, for greed, careerists leccaculo, spies. To launch the suicide attack enemy lines, to move men toward the fire. With binoculars in hand. And then the police in the rear, to serve the boss of the moment. A men choose to put them on the wall, one in ten, the decimation. A shot Italian to punish them for disobeying the order of being massacred absurd, cowardly executed in real or imagined. They, in that first line there had never been.
happens that way.
exaggerated.
a warning not to die. Of offense from either stage. We should not cry on them ahead of time. So be it. Re-emerge from the analogy of war. And we go out of metaphor: here Maroni was not enough, we also wanted Casillo!
The dream, the miracle at the sky so often invoked by superstitious populace, came true. And he knew even Virgin Radio. The beatification process is began in July. And the city hath been spread like a shroud under the feet of reviving.
Six months. Six months after his first speech on TV. The voice of the old master who returns dall'Ade to claim rights of succession. Tears in the eyes of nostalgic Zemanlandia was (sic), the agora to debate fiercely about the pick and on the promises, so similar to the bravado of not deserving of attention, the ancient lord of these lands. "Carry Zeman carry Pavone, back in the series! Access." Swing early summer. And beneath the surface of appearance, the precise plan of a new scale. The whole city, from its fragile institutions at the mercy of twenty at a more prudent and servile business, happy slave, was part of the rebirth of the business plan approved marpione. Bonapartism, they say in politics. Cesario. Incite the crowds to the sound of a project belligerent, dust off the past, the epic golden age, and drive the mass dreaming and fierce (which never before had seemed to have noticed the decline when it was sunk) hips in soft bureaucracies: the eight members, of course, but also the mayor, the Assindustria, and so on and so forth. A Sword of Longinus, wielded with punctuality chattering to each end of that life ordeal that was the summer of 2010 the Union Sports. Fina won the day, and we all know how it went. It revived the circus: the Journal, the Courier, the Guerin Sportivo, even the Manifesto, elbowing in for a closer look at in vitro fertilization of the dinosaur. Jurassic park on the lawn of Zaccheria. Nani, trapeze artists and dancers at the court of Bohemia, while Don Pasquale collect the granting of the fifteen-free municipal stadium, bartenders and exclude illegal vendors from the temple, picking up around young people under 20 (which earn money mo 'bonus for the league every Sunday playing) to simulate a team to give the Prophet (armored screen for any hint of critical technical and tactical and philosophical), increased to 15 euro tickets of the popular and tied the subscription card to the fans.
Then we have made the fines: the plastic bottles that fly in the field to baptize the referee horned habit typical of average fan-the dawn of time, but also the usual paraphernalia of the ultras: the chants against that piece of shit Maroni until the torches, smoke bombs, firecrackers, waving banners fuoridimensionate by splashing water on the linesman.
Inside, Don Pasquale, after the first penalty in that of Fano.
"Idiots", he penned the scribe Zingarelli. Caused the square, which was rallying around the compact, threatening higher prices and calling for a more careful and targeted repression. As if to say that before the advent of his second reign, the police had been guilty with his hands in his pockets. And now the squire felt an urgent need to recruit new faithful horse in the feud left for too long at the mercy of incompetent and bland performers.
But this has not prevented the stadium remain equal to itself. Same as what has always been. In what they have charm. Just think of a birthday party. Suddenly from the back becomes a space and celebrated in honor of lighting a smoke. Invariably, one in the crowd to laugh, to say mo 'comment: "And you're at the stadium?". Rhetorically, it is clear that the stadium is the place of smoke. For all, forever. But not for the league. Not for the "law".
capopopolo A shrewd, attentive to their own people, would raise the shield and the sword again challenge the above. Rozzi, Ancona, Viola, they would have, at the time. He raised his voice against the loggia of the powerful football. He attacked the shrine of the absurd fines and disciplinary action. He scattered the word, related companies joining forces. It would be attached to the phone, waking up at night Presidents Caves and Nocera, Tarantino and Benevento, to rally to say "Enough!" The silly quirks that strangle the Pro Football League Probably
would the example of the birthday party. Why
18 thousand euro fine for chants against Maroni and color in the stands is far too long for any logic. We heard Don Pasquale squawking for something to be welcomed. And maybe even my generation, who hoped to have him goodbye forever sixteen years ago, would have had sympathy for his cause. For the crusade of beggars C Series Maybe we would not have said explicitly and in public. But a guerrilla war aimed at the prohibition of football and we welcome the abuse. You bet.
Instead, all the ladies here call "Don", never having taken vows church (!), Chose a different exit strategy. It increased to 30 steps tickets €. € 30, 60 thousand pounds, for a game of third set. Decimation. No, mass shooting. Retaliation. To punish the ultras, orphans (and certainly not their fault) of the Curva Nord, tidy up your corner of the so-called East Forum
And the street, which was to occur, mesmerized by the words of Saint Joseph of the caudillo as Vesuvius and worse with the sirens of Ulysses' crew, supported unconditionally. After years of poor fireworks and live animals forced into a desperate flight in the field (the rabbits local population, the cockerels Bari), has suddenly brought backdated. Of special education, English. The barons the fuck have said "Enough!". Enough with the ultras and their incivility. Enough with these criminals masquerading as fans. They have relied on the complaint (with the help of CCTV cameras), the arrest, deportation, stoning. All just to please the new ruler of unreasonable reasons at no cost. An entrepreneur who wants to do so without serious consideration to the normal risks of business (this is no different from Marchionne, but never mind), one who wants to capopopolo without a people. Without intelligence. Without recognition, no respect, against anyone who has followed the Foggia in the darkest nights of midnight. "But it does not give a damn a quello…”, dicono i più avveduti, quelli che la sanno lunga, a mezza bocca. “Quello soldi vuole fare!”. Indubbio. Triste e indubbio.
Così come indubbio è che questo continuo parlare di soldi, questo strapotere dei soldi, questo ritenere i soldi unico valido fine per qualsiasi sacrificio e al contempo unica giustificazione seria per qualsiasi azione, stia smorzando la fiamma di una passione che sembrava inestinguibile.
Anche questo è molto triste. Ma sembra interessi solo ad una minoranza di sudditi.

Rash Face Early Pregnancy

The fault

Qui non è questione di uova o di galline. E neppure di concatenazione logica. Il prima e il dopo, in questa storia, non c’entrano. C’entra l’approccio. Prima di Foggia-Viareggio – e si parla di un paio di mesi fa, di meno e non di più – con la città estasiata che aveva assaltato le ricevitorie per i biglietti, esplorai le lande alte della Curva Sud. Da non tesserato, mi ero posto a disposizione di chiunque avesse voluto sapere perché mai i gruppi avevano deciso di “transennare” e lasciare vuoto il centro della curva per dieci minuti, come forma di protesta nei confronti del decreto Maroni. La gente, di lato, era tanta. E continuava a sbucare dagli ingressi, ad ammassarsi. C’era tensione nell’aria. Bastò una parola. L’insofferenza dei “laterali” nei confronti degli energumeni che costringevano la brava gente ad un supplizio inutile per harmful to the cause and the team was evident, they considered it an exercise in pure arrogance without explanation. And that was the good people who - for fear of not finding a ticket, however, fear induced by the corporate terrorism - had signed the draft of us outside the stadiums. Putting the desire to see each of the eleven children Zeman freedom, rushed to get the card, because they had nothing to hide. The fuse is lit and discussion, fierce on both sides, lasted over forty minutes. Needless to go into detail: this is not about who suffers more, most of the ones you love that shirt. Neither of eggs and chickens, who came first, as we have already said. The blockade of the curve was repeated. The first ten minutes "without ultras" - that popular nell'accezione ie without vocals, without color, without heat - have been repeated with Andria and with Syracuse. I have lived it quietly. With Ternana, however, I returned to high moors. And it was different. No fuse, no power, less people. The air power of the big event picturesque had broken into the routine. The inhabitants of these areas had laid out the facts, quietly, quietly resigned to this new rite, who lived with a mixture of impatience and naturalness, as the payment of a bill of Enel. But there was something more, di inedito. Una barriera invisibile, impalpabile, eppure spessa e invalicabile, tra me e loro. Cresciuto nell’epica della comunità, di quel sentire che affratella, di quella fede che unisce le anime distanti, non avevo mai provato questo senso di distacco. Né mai ipotizzato che potesse esistere. I ragazzi che sedevano alla mia sinistra, in attesa dell’inizio della partita e della fine del rito, mi ignoravano. Ed io ignoravo loro, dandogli le spalle. Niente, neppure la polemica di due mesi prima, univa i nostri due mondi. L’uno in lotta disperata contro il baratro, terrorizzato dall’idea dell’estinzione; l’altro sereno, furbo al punto giusto da non farsi risucchiare dai gorghi dell’ossessione passionale, seconded to participate but only sporting event. Between me and them, such as a fault that threatens San Francisco. They talked among themselves. Ibrahimovic and Ronaldinho, Quagliarella and Fantasy Football. Models generational different approach. Nothing in Common. The ninety minutes of live football as a starter to a crash Sunday like many others, to live among Pre Sky and delay. There is the Milan derby, as if it could somehow tangere. And it is rising in his throat a sentence read in adolescence, written with black Uniposca sull'Invicta orange: For us, Foggia is not a matter of life or death. It is much more. A boastful age daughter, no doubt. But the difference between the impulse totalitarian and sloppy relativism of these young men, appears to me even now equally painful. I spoke last night with a friend. I think I have figured out how things are. There is no question of Tessera, is a matter of mind. And heart. The challenge of Pisa, which is prohibited, we lived chatting amiably of this and that. Nocera's game, which is prohibited, I lived grilled cuttlefish, sausage, eggplant. I will have seen the first fifteen minutes and ten the second. Because the television team did not belong to me, not mine. And when you think it could be a loss of passion, a kind of foretaste of the peace of the senses, the mind returns to the Eagle and the Foggia Gela. And you realize that that's not how things are. The Foggia Mario Schena and Teleblu is the shapes of the members. Foggia is the kids relativists, those behind the Iron Curtain. Separate those at home. Another team than the one for which typhus. There is no story. It's not a question of who came first between the chicken and the egg. Simply, I'm not a team that I chose between the two hundred possible, it is the Foggia exists because I exist. Dolce arrogance in times of disaster. Founded, plus: Lapland is there, but the difference between having and not having ever feel it is minimal non-existent. Limbo.

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"Better Foggia" on Sky (Channel 200 - 10.30)

In December 2007, inspired by the tutelary deity Nick Hornby and the red and black striped shirt Athletic Union, we gave birth to our firstborn literature. We decided to call echoing an old title for the Corriere dello Sport: " Juve or Milan? Foggia better. " Newsagents and bookstores began to peddle this our pleasant fatigue - published through the efforts of our unconscious, and enriched by the publisher Conrad Rainone wonderful preface to Darwin Pastorin - and that Christmas was filled with memories. "The acrid smell of tear-Foggia Varese to bolt irreducible Caramanno Pino. Hopes of Pippo Pippo Marchioro the scope of promotion in the night in B ". So explained short article that we have been accustomed to read and reread. To give an idea of \u200b\u200bour chance of a sentimental journey in the history of the team that makes us go crazy with joy. And not only.

In May of 2010, our baby has grown up. She left outside the borders of the province, and thanks to a new unconscious, this time of Bradipolibri of Turin, the sentimental journey is divided: the new edition, new packaging, and two more chapters to get to lap the latest stages of this small great love. The defeat of Cremona in the playoffs in 2008, the defeat of those of Benevento in 2009. There is a team that makes us go crazy with joy.

Thursday, November 24, 2010 la nostra avventura si arricchisce di un nuovo capitolo: alle 10,30 saremo infatti ospiti della trasmissione Sky Sport Caffè, canale 200 del decoder. Probabilmente racconteremo di quel gol di Barone a Trapani, di quei ragazzini che in strada sognavano la serie A, di quegli adolescenti che videro cadere la Juventus allo “Zaccheria”, o dei giovani che retrocessero a Salerno o che, nello spareggio di Ancona, videro spalancarsi le porte della C2. Oppure, più prosaicamente, ci chiederanno di Zeman.

In ogni caso, segnatevi l’appuntamento.
Noi vi garantiamo che faremo di tutto per arrivare in tempo.


Il collettivo Lobanowski

How To Beat Nabooti Safari

Ricominicamo. Photographs of your absence

Ok, transfer made. With some details still to settle. Lecce is beautiful. It was easy to acclimate. All you need is a couple of points: supermarket, pharmacy and McDonald's. Obviously, only the beginning. Then finally you can test all the sushi bar and you're done! Do you realize? I had to choose where to eat sushi and not look for a place to do it! I console myself with these little things since my love life lately has gone to fuck off ... and with her various protaqonisti the soap-opera. The frustration lies mainly in the fact that the story is "hidden." Omitted names, places mysterious, dark and sad whores ladies ... god, what is current, but it is not an episode of Porta a Porta, which speaks of Berlusconi.
remain the great satisfactions of Radio Rama. Fortunately. I found myself in a size young, smiling, fresh and carefree. The ideal for me not regret the experience of Selene.
When I am writing from Rebecca's house, while drinking tea with cloves and cardamom (to be honest until 10 minutes ago I did not know what it was). Sant'orozo the window, with pedantic do, tells me the only three possibilities I: repress, depress me, try again.
I choose the third. I leave it all behind and fuck you. Do not even want to think about tanto su. Me le tengo. Incasso. Non mi sforzo neppure a covare rancore.
...
sappiate che non mi sono sforzato neppure a rileggere quello che ho scritto...
quindi...
Baci!

La vera felicità proviene da un senso di pace e appagamento interiori, che a sua volta si ottiene coltivando altruismo, amore, compassione e grazie all'eliminazione di rancore, egoismo e avidità.

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whistles detectors

Domenica 31 ottobre, Foggia-Syracuse 0-2

Second Half, definitely. The minute I do not know. It is always difficult to establish the minute. Even approximately. When you sing you look in the balustrade. Or you look around. The watch, mobile phone or it may be, remain unknown. Out of place, like an oval ball or a racket. In fact, you often confuse the first with later. In the final phase. Two
to zero for the guests. This is certain. One of our midfielder missed a launch.
And the veil of hypocrisy of thousands of supporters of the 2010/11 season, the so-called nostalgic Zemanlandia Before grappling with the dream of the remake, fans of Project Casilla, followers of the expertise of scholars of Peacock, the "finally se ne sono andati quegli otto pezzenti”, è venuto giù. Fragorosamente. Col suono ridicolo dei fischi, dei Buuuu!
E di sepolcri imbiancati si è svelata la curva.
La piazza – ansiosa di abbeverarsi alla luce dei nuovi successi – si è riscoperta già stanca di “soffrire” a metà del girone d’andata. Omuncoli senza dignità, stufi di perdere alla prima difficoltà. Ambivano a godersi lo spettacolo del 4-3-3, a circondare d’effluvi circensi il Ritorno del Profeta nella sua Patria adottiva. Si erano sobbarcati i chilometri per Vasto, in piena estate, in una sorta di pellegrinaggio della speranza, per gridare il nome del vate. E chissà cosa credevano d’aver fatto. They had even offended when those bad guys of the ultras had obscured the view of the field waving the banner with the tireless.
And despite the eleven years of painful experience that C does not have stories or offshoots (such as the promotion challenge with Nocerina, or Brindisi, ol'Andria, or three consecutive playoff loss), it is nice to see the premature end of their patience.
The unveiling of their real consistency, regardless of the claims bar.
Now what?
bloody insult them, as they deserve the absolute lack of dedication to the cause? Mock their desperate lack of stoicism, the indisposition to the most primitive sense of duty?
mocking the minimum threshold of endurance demonstrated?
Or rather go to fish out what the echo, the wind, led to the rest of us in the four months of the new adventure of the Triad. Resume excerpts. Working Stock. When we said we were selfish to prefer our protest against the pass at the sacred oath to support the shirt, the team, even the company, which had made many efforts (!) To get us out from the anonymity of recent seasons.
"lets you shred in the flaming fields of C1 only a question of your principle, denunciations exchanged for Boy Scouts.
"I am twenty years old kids, they need bedlam of Zaccheria, "he tried to accuse criticizing the choice of curves not to sing for the first ten minutes. "What is beginning to give the others?". They know how hard the lanciacori serves to involve these deprived to do their part in the "pit" (because the passion in these parts, you delegate: they are the ultras have to do in the casino and then brag to friends, certainly not them, which warms the place of cement if it was not inappropriate to sit openly in the "popular").
"You do not want good to Foggia, Chios.
Then it happens that a midfielder missed a launch for the Syracuse 2-0. And the principles go fuck yourself. C’è chi sbraita, chi dice “basta!” come un amante tradito (ma da che?), chi si ripromette che mai più, mai più si lascerà sedurre da una promessa, chi molla a venti dalla fine, chi arriva a ripensare alle proprie teorie sul Maestro, azzardando uno Zeman “sorpassato, superato”.
Che spettacolo vedere le proprie convinzioni alimentarsi di nuova linfa.
E pensare che questa gente, non più tardi di una settimana fa, gridava al miracolo per il punto conquistato al Flaminio. Pensare che è per colpa di questa gente che non ha nulla da nascondere – muta all’occorrenza e opportunisticamente voltagabbana – che devo lottare per procacciarmi il biglietto già dal lunedì morning. But the prophecies come true, and who comes second-hand fan, a fan of second-hand bell. And dies. For all this, and much more, when, one day ask me about this match inutilissima with Syracuse, "What do you remember?" Answer: The new faithful booed the U.S. Foggia. Revealing themselves.

6 Inch Alphabet Blocks

On The imagination

Saturday, October 22, Roma-Foggia 3-3 Atletico

safety and spirit of the times

A rectangular piece of paper of low lineage, and somewhat plebeian watermarked paper, colored white with sad tunes brown, like video by Peter Gabriel. The stamp on the seam of SIAE, the words "Whole – 1° posto, prevendita: 0698764”. Lo spettatore è tenuto a conservare il biglietto nel luogo della manifestazione e nelle immediate adiacenze. Peccato.
Peccato non poterlo portare in giro per mostre e vernissage. Perché questo tagliando è un’opera d’arte. Magari non un capolavoro, ma neppure il semplice pezzo di carta che vogliono farci credere (quelli che in vita non hanno apprezzato né Van Gogh né Ivan Graziani). È la prova tangibile – la metafora, direbbero i critici letterari – dell’inutilità. Incarna lo Spirito dei tempi. La carta igienica del sistema Maroni. Ne ho raccolti un paio da terra. Tra qualche anno avranno un valore inestimabile. Me li rivenderò su Ebay in even the darkest times, if you really do not appreciate Sotheby's. Rivers

words about safety, violence, the nightmare from beyond the Adriatic Hooligan. Thousands, tens of thousands of syllables uttered by Quaestors, prefects, inspectors, field agents, chairmen, steward. Thousands of Euros to upgrade facilities on the prison's most advanced model, groped for many to implement the ministerial decrees, to pose as German efficiency.
And then, one fine Saturday in October, all at the box office, forty minutes from the opening whistle, pushing each other, to push, to see the line grow out of control, disorganized properly, to risk of 'kill a grid, turn the corner joints. And among the screams of the Atletico fans and those of Foggia, in the division between substantive and essentially useless card (where your lanes, friends?) And not, and the roman zemaniani, in the melting pot of 14.30 relive the scenes of 1984, and come back for a moment to shake hands with father intent on arguing with those pieces of shit that never opened more than one door. To suffer almost smell and National Denim without filter on your hands. I do not remember who was the Minister of Interior in 1984, but it sure did not think the stadiums. He was meeting with a hood, perhaps, organized massacres of State, silt and bribes, probably ma allo stadio si andava liberamente, rudemente, senza ammortizzatori. Era un’esperienza adulta. E qui, ora, è lo stesso. E non possiamo rallegrarcene a dovere. Perché bisognerebbe fingere che in mezzo non ci sia stata la retorica scassa-cazzi pluriannuale sugli ultras e la Tessera. Fingere che non abbiano fatto degli stadi quel che ne hanno invece fatto. Il cassiere sarà felice, penso, ma con che faccia si va in giro a dire che è normale avere problemi dinanzi a 4mila spettatori quando di solito se ne fanno 500? Allora perché mai questa cavolo di squadra gioca al Flaminio, se non ha che 500 affezionati sostenitori? Perché non se ne torna nel quartiere, se mai ne ha avuto uno? Per tutto questo, quando quel poveraccio (o quella poor thing, I do not know why I never got to see the light at the end of the tabernacle) in the battle of the names of everyone in his grave-only door open, while in wild tail is counted with the money and documents such as landing at Ellis Island, in short, when the man-on has announced that it was over the paper to print the coupons and you had to fall back on some reservations on hold since Cindy Lauper sang a Deejay television, the collective laughter has seriously threatened to kill them. Except that people were too strung at that gut from sardines to laugh at the skit. That we had begun Monday. Ticket sales are available at authorized dealers, read Note. The usual slew of incompetent questions - "But you can go in guests?", "But you need the card?" - First rising then the alarm: "They stopped the sale of the areas for non-members. "But how - we wondered - what? The trip is free, has no territorial limitations. What is this, the new frontier of the fight against refractory? ". Here, if we had found our good coupons in the week of Foggia, if no one had exercised his ingenious pressure on demotivating Ofanto bloke avenue, at this time would not be here. Do not waste time and would not do mass. Ergo: I would not even be missed. You what I explain to my neighbors, the Romans, natives and Foggia. And someone shouts something at precise intervals Maroni or their mother. Real People, eh, not Ivan the mob in Belgrade. In 1984 no one thought to the mothers of the Ministers, as he was standing in line at the gate of Zaccheria. It was an adult world: there was a sort of pact of mutual indifference that, on balance, save the honor of all. He was wrong by professionals.

The circus Zeman

At the end of the ride, emerges from the crowd. Bruised, but alive. There are those who maintain the line. A couple of Buston of Peroni Nastro Azzurro and by 0.66, and we camp. It draws breath, I light up a cigarette. And for the first time since We parked the van, I try to line up the feelings. I see. Flaminio from outside the system and a gentleman. Observes: "Christ's sake." Serve the ability of a writer specializing in pilgrimages, sacred rites collective Pauline stuff like that, to explain what the square bustles. The best, worst, trivial. Hundreds of heads walking around, ants undecided, for a walk: move, orient, sink, re-emerge. Capturing emotions. It is a great folk event. It is the St. Catherine's Fair, but not now, nor that of the via Galliani. It is of course the Fair Giannone, ol'Embell Riva. A circus in which everything is mixed, and the event is to be pure backdrop. As water vendors and peanuts in Vermicino. Sixteen of the harnessed scarves bought at the kiosk; accents of the province of Foggia room in Rome, inhabitants of the capital in search of thrills others, or low-cost memories. I do not. It's all so surreal that I can imagine winged dragons and dwarves. Every so often seems to look a few ultras ask for help and comfort: they move out of place, these bandits from thousands of miles each season. They can not explain what is happening. I turn and see Balbo. Abel Balbo. is with two friends, waiting for tickets, as all of us. Uncorked a great beer with the lighter, light up a Lucky Strike's Angel. It seems there is Previti, and also Bobo Craxi. VIPs: a hypothesis I had not contemplated, but I think it's bad bad things all the time. I say, and a retinue of workers cuts across the road. From right to left. Enthusiasm must be at least a Casillo. Instead it Venditti. Antonello Venditti. From the row at the bottom of my vision, one yells "Romania of shit." But the ride, happy to still be recognized, still living in Strapaese of toys. Photos with the singer, band, several "Forza Foggia!" And even a few mother-in-law on the phone. Other dragons spread their wings on the Roman fortress, while impromptu event organizers try to sidetrack to ease the chaos: "The Foggia non-members can go for the ticket in South Bend Pagano directly to the doors. " As the oratory. Another thought after hearing the Minister and his mom. And we see Gigi Di Biagio. It seems the Oscars. Lacks the red carpet. Vaga, Gigi, staring at the phone. "Oi, Gigi, but if you're a day?" He smiles. Enzo watches the concrete: "Gigi, why not offer us a beer?". What looks at the envelope still full, "Of course, - tells thoughtful - might not be enough. We go to the kiosk. " Except that the kiosk has a row of two people and Gigi get bored waiting, so your wallet, grab 2 notes 10 and says: "See the offer, but I'm leaving." I do not know why, We can do without his company, and laugh like idiots. Now fully in line with the carnival. Pagliacci. We think: "And if we went in search of great ex?". We propose a tariff: Lords claim by at least one fifty, and Codispoti List are exempt. Pagaci, pagaci, pagaci drink, [player name], pagaci to drink!

Families stadium

move into our hatch. At the end of fatigue, there was a miscalculation. These are the 15 steps. And I have a ticket. But another concern is: "Not there are members here?", We ask the official jacket. "No, - that is impatient – non ce ne sono”. Bene, entriamo. Mentre da dietro qualcuno sta chiedendo: “Mica entrano anche i tesserati?”, e quello risponde che no, non entrano, ma neppure è bello che li trattiamo come appestati. Peggio, direi, visto che la peste nessuno se la va a cercare con le sue mani. Tecnica sperimentata: Ceska, più bassa, passa i controlli arancioni indicando me che mostro quella cartacea cosa qualsiasi che garantiscono essere il ticket, e nel gioco di rimandi schizza dentro prima che quello possa rendersi conto. Ma l’amico è in gamba e mi blocca. “Guarda che con un biglietto entra una sola persona”, “Certo”, “E allora la ragazza?”, “Quale ragazza?”, "The brunette with long hair?", "What girl, no girl," "Why not?", "No". Zemana In the realm of illusion, the boy is not convinced of having had a hallucination, and I reassured him that I look like a psychiatrist. "Quiet, no girl." But an official in a suit, a different feel and smell of cheating is not prepared to be cheating. Comes in a gallop, with the air of those who will not do it to him. Listen to a legend that speaks of an orange long-haired brunette, nodding seriously, grab a random guy and tells him: "Show me the ticket." As if he had a clear strategy of investigation. What, surprised, surrender it to him. And the astute can finally exclaim, "This ticket is fake, the stamp is missing." A laugh will bury you. And there was great need of imagination to imagine that those things would have been a ticket! I wish that even if I do not think those things themselves! Yes, it's Saturday and you can make photocopies, but there was insufficient time material. And then ... it is difficult to draw a work of art of this kind. The debate moves on the ticket, a couple of cops I contend the raid, while an orange steward it confusing to reconstruct his last minutes. Pass the first control, the others are already in the second. Appearance Joseph, who has lingered, and I make the amazing shit to light a cigarette. An agent turns shooting. I riperquisisce. He wants to investigate. The stages must go places for families to be nonsmokers. And no vices, as in Manu sequester water bottle for Aurelio, 13 months and first trip in a van. "The child, if he thirst, you can go to the bar." At the bar of his childhood imagination, the one with the marmots that serve drinks with umbrellas, as this stage of the Six Nations in it, is a ruin. While you could advise was to Aurelius to drink directly from the condensate leak in plumbing. The second control triggers debate. A boy never seen indicates the agents and says, "That's why I do not go over the stadium." His father nods. It still hurts to hear these things. I will be able to tell the waiter in the restaurant in Frascati, which makes us more or less the same confession. At 22 he broke the fucking cops and controls. Third search, then the group is accompanied holidays falling in the shady underground of our jewel of rugby. When we come to revise the sky, Foggia is losing 1-0.

Mediocrity and its

But how nice it is to be with you. The area where we are, I am told, is normally closed. But it is not normal even sell 4 thousand biglietti. Noi siamo in alto, ultima fila a cantare. Dietro, ma anche sotto, molte facce sconosciute e tanti commenti in romanesco. Studenti e tante ragazze, che non sempre sanno cosa mettersi per simili occasioni. Di lato, in curva, i tesserati. Li vedo intenti a battere le mani. Saranno quattrocento, forse qualcuno in più. Sfilacciati. Angioletto dice di non ripetere l’errore di giudicarli da un solo punto di vista. Esistono gli ultras a questo mondo ed esistono i tifosi, sostiene. È il tifoso a segnare lo scarto che permette di vedere l’ultras, un po’ come nella scala evolutiva della specie. Sarà, ma anche tra di noi i tifosi sono tanti. Con tanti cellulari puntati, alla giapponese. Ogni tanto seguono un battimani, ogni tanto canticchiano qualcosa. Ma nella sostanza, sono sempre gli stessi quelli che si sbracciano e urlano forte. Un signore si aggrega al nostro gruppo. Si sgola, tanto che alla fine gli regaleremmo la maglietta, se ne avessimo. Il Foggia pareggia su mischia da angolo. Noi urliamo che è gol dal cross in mezzo. Alla fine l’arbitro ci asseconda. I cori si fanno anni Novanta e coinvolgono i nostalgici. Il Foggia segna altre due volte. La tribuna esplode, come la gradinata e la curva. Ma quanti ne siamo? Difficile stabilirlo. Mi diverto solo se. Siamo un po’ staccati dal resto dei nostri, e per quanti sforzi si facciano, sembrano vani. Amici, fuori dallo stadio, dicono che non è così, che anzi si è sentito tutto. Ma noi, prima ancora del rigore in favor of the athlete who changes the fate of the match, we have already christened as "mediocre" the evidence in the stands. "Cori dry vocals are dry," we urge the bathroom range. We have suffered the second goal on a penalty kick net, they all say, but the expulsion of our defense is exaggerated. The recovery is tense, exciting. We wave the flag and there's also the coveted backing vocals dry. We want this victory. The echo comforts us, but now we have an opinion and is always boring call everything into question. Our defending themselves, we do our part, but too many casual spots remain mute to observe the field. Wrong. Or at least, does not go to us who have the eye trained. At the end of the draw with Atletico Baronius, a man who - as Lello - play situation. But now we have identified the man responsible for this back in arbitration. The scoreboard says 3-3 behind us. In the gallery there are so many kids. Between us, the only Aurelio at home that runs between the seats and forcing Manu Ceska a fantastic tackles in the temple of rugby. The Foggia attacks. We are conditioned by Zeman, that we want to win. Because we deserve. And when one of our places to ride on the far post and the ball touches the post, the disappointment is authentic. I turned to look at the display. Recitation: 91'22 ". It would have been fantastic. Three to three. This is the final result. Who knows as he took it Venditti. Who knows Bobo Craxi.

Appendix and dedication to our little ultras

in the box when we closed, we wandered. It seems vaguely Benevento, on the day of the famous play-off defeat. It seems that once again want to avoid encounters. And carry away the members. They think we're on the civil war. Until then, the protagonist is still Aurelius. It was the beginning. You may say that he had lived his first trip in 13 months authentic. A luxury reserved only for the predestined. The ultras might select it as a Tibetan Lama. The van, as highway, "Take a look if you see Bari. In winter evening already smoothed output for 2 hours and wander among the Castles, in one of the wildest and most inaccessible areas of Europe. Frascati would expect the wine of the tavern and pork offered by Angel, who in life has ceased to be an individual and now is merely a function: the father of Aurelius. Is a function, you know, not a birthday. Either tonight or Thursday. Other dinner tables, spartan other taverns, and other third parties times lie ahead, while we await the same time taking up a choir. Still the same: Aurelio does not pass!

How To Pin Hot Curlers

Non guarderò mai più negli occhi la mia gelosia
e tornerà l’indifferenza a farmi compagnia
Fai spazio, fai spazio, fai spazio più che puoi
più che se ne può fare
Everyone has the right to say what everyone
not to listen.
Months passed and the experience does not cause changes over time to approach
that now is the damage,

years are no longer the life that passes and goes away
living it better, I will avenge
sorry if not everyone, but I'll take
take the road that can
What year was when the temporal
did not want us to go out that day was
as calendar,
if I try I can not remember
and count the days instead
and as always the same innocence I
always surprised when

find any semblance of your tracks and your name
even though I live now without
photographed da Dio in persona
fotografie della tua assenza.
Fotografie
Mentre in molti si avvicinano a te
senza riuscirci mai
non riesco a dare forma ad un destino
che si avvicini a noi
ed ho così perso coraggio
che è facile cadere in uno sbaglio
e cerco tra tutta la gente almeno un tuo dettaglio
ho in testa recrudescenze della tua ultima carezza
e aspetto stordito con un sorriso mi dia la mia salvezza.
Che anno era quando il temporale
non voleva farci uscire più
che giorno era, quale calendario,
se ci provo non me lo ricordo
e conto i giorni al contrario
e come sempre la stessa innocenza
mi sorprendo sempre quando
troverò ogni parvenza
di tracce tue e del tuo nome
anche se vivo ormai senza
fotografate da Dio in persona
fotografie della tua assenza.
Cosa ci sia dietro ad un segreto
cosa davanti lo vedo
e il viso triste sopra ogni dubbio
non lo nascondo e se lo faccio
sbaglio. Io sbaglio.
Solo fotografie della tua assenza

(T. Ferro)

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ramp Gela

Sunday, October 10, Gela-Foggia 2-1

The launch and Barletta Foggia is the stuff of members, live on TV with a growing feeling of inadequacy, di non-appartenenza. Il Foggia del ritorno allo Zaccheria, quello visto e non vissuto col Viareggio, resta materiale da tifosi di gradinata. Quello di Cava e di Castellammare, poi, talmente finto, costruito, appartiene per intero ad un concetto astratto, etereo di “tifoso”. Non è di nessuno.


La traversata

I fari tagliano un buio carico d’acqua. Non piove ancora con decisione, ma i tergicristalli sono all’opera. Tutti a destra, e-eh, tutti a sinistra, alé-alé. Dal buio del circondario – Puglia estrema, Basilicata, forse un pezzo di Campania, forse la taiga russo-siberiana – ritagliamo solo la forma del furgone che ci precede. E quando la carreggiata leans to one side, the night makes the image of one of the most fascinating spectacles in nature: the convoy. Seven, eight vans interspersed with several private cars. The style points to non-members Tickets South in your pocket, those of the forum, which cost 20 € sweaty. But a price has not been approved, and we intend to pay. Beers passed from hand to hand, replace the thermos of coffee. In front, a Johnny Walker on a crossing does less damage Borghetti incontinent. I would stay awake for as long as possible. I would like to see the interior of Sicily. We leave behind Consilina room, and with increasing emotion static admire the work on the Salerno-Reggio. They touch speed unthinkable in some places are grazed 40 km / h, in others the caravan becomes a row of ten little Indians. When we quantify in 300 passes and the miles still to go before moving on to the ferry, drown the sorrow of realism in bars Kinder family package. Three and a half hours, maybe four, to hear Enzo talking about oranges and saffron. He talks non-stop since Thursday now, so I decided not to even prepare a sandwich for not spoil the surprise. The dawn salute the best stretch of the entire artery, the one where cars walk in two different lanes (pure unconsciousness!) And show the drug raised in their chilling beauty. You see the sea, and in front of Sicily, while the countries of the last portion of the road on the continent are indistinguishable under the asphalt stains. The past 8 when we reach the boarding of Villa San Giovanni. Maritime Station to stretch their legs. To see it, all down by the media, we are a discreet black spot. It is hard to remain consistent, to endure the bad luck, when surrender would seem so easy, almost obvious, almost predictable. Instead. The pleasure that one feels mad to be stoic and suffering in order to keep your head up, is priceless. It is not a spot. On the ferry you can ascend to the upper floors. We ramps as children in ecstasy. And when the vehicle is moving, feel the cold on his face, detached from the mainland and pointing at another, it is a pleasant feeling. It is as boatswains to challenge the winds. And the metaphors would rain down easy, if we wanted to stay in the banal. Instead. Pirate flag hoisted on the balcony. Messina approaching. Then back down again in the media, again the spectacle of the convoy. On the motorway to Catania, Sicily, but flowing side still manages to catch the eye. Nature, the island, though the most interesting section, I am sure it is the only one I want to live in wide-eyed, will be inside the state to Caltagirone and Gela. And not for nothing, after a night spent to operate the CD player of the Duchy, to listen and hear a babbling Giuliano Palma jump the Bluebeaters, singing a live version of Nightmare before caught on the radio, his eyes suddenly become heavy. And I fall into the void of unconsciousness in its long-awaited moment. A release. When I open them missing thirty kilometers to the goal. I lost everything. I drink whiskey bottle like a drunk clinging to a long course. Around the lights are clear, the countryside is dry and yellow and green and fresh at the same time. On the height, Niscemi. Behind in the van, no life. There is talk of oranges to the sauce and variations of the anchovies. They probably did not talk about something else during the entire trip. I remember being hungry. So hungry. Fame authentic. The large face of the eternal child of Kinder me flirtatious smiles from the box on the dashboard: "Fuck you?". The last sign. Gela.

Gela

extreme periphery. A traffic jam, it would take Johnny Toothpick. Car horns trumpeting. Someone greets us from the cockpits and the sidewalk. Pachyderm we are a species of whale looking for great beach on quite afford of stalled. We do not ask for better. Without conscience, driven by the tide, we find ourselves in front of the stage, identified by a row of blue-white flags on flagpoles. Parking is nearby. Are 13. Eleven hours after departure a little square on Lebanon. The smoke of the Oranges illustrates our welcome to passers-by. "Do the good, "we hear from behind. The four policemen have faces Seduced and Abandoned. One tries to make a hostile, almost ordered. But let's face it, is not credible, and his move is limited to park us all in the same direction. A great job. Another, from person to do well, raise your voice when speaking on the phone: "But I'm here, I tell you ... I know ... But I guarantee you've got before." It makes one smile. Evidently had expected only those 5 members. And in the era that we are announcing the era of electronic microchip. I'm hungry and reached the clearing waiting for my share of the van. The Count and David give me a hand. We're ready. Ready to taste one of the reasons for this trip, the ghosts evoked by Enzo for a week. Developed the first bar. A flying alongside us. Accompanies us. Closed. Then the boy in the middle blue and white shows us a second port. Pointing to that, his stomach anxiously awaiting. But the lady only has two, and are cold and similar to those found at the picnic or Capriccio. We go out with a principle of incipient distress. And a new police officer has become involved in the debate. "Look, you have to follow but there anywhere?". What a little 'there is evil. He answers: "No ...." As if to say: I was just doing it together. We recover talking about food. He explains that Sicily is not the Puglia, where everything is played at lunch. Here the better if you reserve for the evening. There will be pizza, calzone and cannoli after 17.30. When we are traveling in practice. Leave us alone, as we requested. Relieve disappointment with Moretti. And my stomach twists. Gastritis typical of these situations of hope and illusion. We wander as lost, orphans of our bodyguard. A middle-aged couple stopped us and greets us. Are Licata, first homeland Zeman. They came on purpose. Two others are asking: "But still, as the coach?", "Old man," we reply. A new machine approaches the table where we ordered another round of beers. They are relatives of a player. Zeman said they saw. Now the figure of the coach above any other representation of our team. Yet. Today, for the shirt, we have traveled, and now and then. We feel reborn love thrown from Tessera.

methodological issues

At 14 we are ready. But being ready is not enough. Now the police officers tell us that we can accommodate. In the area guests. We think we have got it wrong. We believe that the inspector has been confused, have used terms in disuse because of habit. But it takes little to understand that it is not, and we find ourselves immersed in a flash to the ankles in a new thorny controversy. The question is, can not afford to take their seats in the one hundred Foggia next to the fans of the Gela. Would be forced to enforce the number of tickets, to scatter, to move many to Gela. It is a technicality, I guess you're miles away. It opens the debate, which generates a score of sub-debates. They know what it costs to people who has been the 800 km to give up the game. But stable. Moreover, we have had to give up so much, it will not be a game to change things. Seems to appear, and after a quarter of an hour door to door, guaranteed to make the block. After all: do not ask for more. Or better: we never thought of doing anything else. But you must always give the impression that the breath is a concession. It is the game of authority ("I we are dealing with because you are good friends of these people ...). Let's not pre-screen consists of electoral boards and warm voice. But it is nice to be with you, never licensed, never licensed, always in trouble. The row of Gela to enter is very long. Look at us all. We sing, hands to the sky. A white-haired gentleman sgom order to speak with a manager, "But come here?", "It seems to be," "And you can?", "Today." Not so much for the 20 euro spent. The money is never an issue worthy of note. It is the principle. If the trip is free, if the rules show a leak, I rushed. It's obvious. Non ho voglia, nessuno ha voglia, di farsi estromettere dal proprio habitat. Dentro sento un nuovo funzionario sbraitare con un sottoposto: “Ma tutte queste cazzo di bandiere chi le ha fatte entrare? Adesso mi sentono”. Devo ammettere che sono tanti i funzionari in borghese. Direi troppi, vista la relativa calma e l’inevitabile confusione degli ordini impartiti dall’alto. C’è molta gente. La curva è piena, la tribuna si riempie velocemente. Noi siamo a destra, in un fazzoletto di seggiolini. La gente attorno si è semplicemente spostata, lasciandoci un cuscinetto d’aria. Nessun problema. Invece. In cinque minuti cambia tutto. Di nuovo l’esercito di uomini in borghese cambia idea. E ci comunica che lì we can no longer stand. It is absurd, simply. Again face to face. The people of Gela, which he had held him without problems, no longer understands. Moreover: we are the ultras, irrational and bestial people, to hear media and ministers. Begins to rumble. We are still in a free zone invaders and their - legitimate inhabitants of those lands of the stadium - do not want problems. It would be too much trouble, although it would be very useful to explain to everyone how things are. Talk about a useless decree, the contradictions it generates, which causes some discomfort at all. But there is no time. We invite you to dislodge. And the forum, which has followed the progress of the case, applauded the police che fanno il loro ingresso risolutore. Non è colpa loro, hanno semplicemente frainteso. Chi non ha frainteso per niente, invece, ed è responsabile del sommovimento d’animi che crea, blatera. Ci vuole fuori dalla tribuna in un flash. Io parlo con l’ennesimo uomo in borghese. È mancanza di buon senso, inutile lamentarsi dopo. Siamo entrati in pace in un settore pacifico. È solo grazie al loro intervento confusionario che adesso le tanto paventate “teste matte” potrebbero avere buon gioco e venire a galla. Noi non molliamo. Siamo sulla scalinata d’accesso, a due passi dalla rampa per i disabili. Siamo cento, disposti su tre file. Qualcuno in piedi sul muretto, qualcuno sotto, qualcuno in balaustra, ma i più a ground in a corridor from which the field is not even guess. But the stakes are always the same: dignity. Make people understand that we bend the rules absurd as not to retreat before the decrees crazy. We stay there. And sing. Come what may. But it is nice to be with you, never licensed, never licensed, always in trouble. The Gela forum whistle, but we left them indifferent. They may not fully understand, but if a hundred people singing and waving on a staircase, rejecting the guests comfortable and vacuum the area after a night and a morning trip, he shot. Many people look at us. Then, despite the cops, take courage. Also because to go to the bathroom, or exit, or go to the bar, we must move from the ramp. There is no third way. We need to move among us. Waving aside - because if you do beaks sure someone in the hall - I see the first Gela down. The Foggia, we have argued, already losing 2-0. A gentleman approached me and jokingly broke the ice on the defense of the U.S.. Then I said that we welcome in Gela. And you could tell that was what I wanted to tell me. That was down almost on purpose. A second man shakes my hand, "Welcome, boys." It is a sudden change of attitude. Many of us feel a gesture of support, to talk to us, to stop a few seconds more. We realize that we were not the problem. Noi ci facciamo sentire, sosteniamo la squadra che – poco alla volta – risentiamo nostra. Vedo persone che mi sfilano accanto con panini ripieni di gelato. Manca ancora un quarto d’ora alla fine del tempo e se esco, Enzo mi sgrida. E il mio fisico deprivato di cibo non è in grado di reggere le umiliazioni. Desisto. All’intervallo, l’intera tribuna si rovescia per le scale. Due battute col funzionario: “Sicché, era fuorilegge sistemarci sulle scale, e ci avete sistemato sulla rampa dei disabili. Ottima mossa”. Poi anch’io vado da Sasà il gelataio, che sembra una divinità indiana a molte braccia. Siamo gomito a gomito coi gelesi al bar, e non potrebbe essere altrimenti (quando si dice la sicurezza!). I wonder why we are against the pass. That's how it works, and it's beautiful. I explain, listen, ask again, nodding. "A Foggia do not have it here this granita, eh?". I smile, and do not know why I would reply that the c'abbiamo torcinelli. I say nothing just in time. The shot is beautiful. Not in the field, that we do not see really. But between us. A policeman asked me why I spend my time watching my flag flying and not the game. I would say: "But the facts your cock ..." (again, silent for a moment before), but I limit myself to an enigmatic: "The game is us." That does not understand, go to the guys on the wall, it's called one to say that it is likely to fall, touching him, that he loses his balance and falls. The policeman disappears among his colleagues. And I do feast for four days a month, the calendar for me to know no surprises. The Foggia makes it 2-1. The referee gives 5 minutes of recovery. Until the end, Come on guys! At that time, I recognize my shirt, my team. Defeated, desperate, beautiful. We lose. The gallery erupts, we call our under the ramp. Then, you remove the pieces, we are moving towards the exit. And here something unexpected happens. The entire forum is cheering, but it turned toward us. Is applauding us. I do not. Greet, salute. I'll have to rework this scene, I think, but I am sure that we left something here today, if a forum that two hours before the alleged intervention of the police, now pays tribute to our passion, our sacrifice made. On the ferry, a few hours later, someone will tell us that he heard on the radio-sporting fans of non-members of Foggia. I repeat: we are not saints, we are not angels, but we have dignity, respect and honor to sell. And not only us but many ultras in that country. It is time for ordinary people, terrified by the media for the scoop, I understand.

The launch and Barletta Foggia is the stuff of members, live on TV with a growing feeling of inadequacy, of not belonging. The return to Zaccheria of Foggia, one seen and lived with Viareggio, is material to fans on the steps. Cava and to Castellammare, then, so fake, constructed, belongs entirely to an abstract concept, ethereal "fan." To no one. The Foggia Gela is ours. Again, and forever.

PS:

"Stop! Stop! A rotisserie. " "Good evening, there is 25". And so, in that of Messina, a little after 21, even the ghost of Sicilian oranges hath been revealed.

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Avetrana. The change

Questa mattina sono stato ad Avetrana. Dopo il lavoro, tornando a Taranto, ho attraversato il paese come faccio ogni weekend da quasi 15 anni. Conoscevo due aspetti di questo paese. Avetrana al mattino, trafficata, viva, commercianti di frutta in the small open space in front of the church entrance, people walking. Avetrana at night, deserted road, a passage to cross. Today I stop, get out of the car and see un'Avetrana unpublished. Hide behind the pain that almost borders on shame, Avetrana did not plagiarize ever made by the media, a few days after his death, wanted to paint at all costs as a fifteen Sarah rebellious, who listens to Manson and wrote his anxieties about his diary. Avetrana never believed in voluntary removal of that child for many journalists was becoming a little woman eager for freedom, just because you argued with his mother, had four profiles on facebook and chat with strangers. Avetrana Sarah knew. Avetrana knew the truth. That's why he never stopped looking. A little girl. A normal, ordinary, beautiful teenager of 15 years. Avetrana supports a mother painted by the media as cold and detached, almost indifferent. Concetta Avetrana know. Avetrana knows the truth. A woman petrified by the pain that is thrown to the media not to allow the attention surrounding the disappearance of his daughter is waning as in other cases. Only one thing Avetrana did not know: that Michael would become a murderess. One of the worst kind. One of those who, because of its cruelty, it makes you just hope for the death penalty, as if death could be a really appropriate punishment. Death is a relief. Avetrana now fear. Fear of becoming yet another sensational goal of the macabre tourism. Fear of being remembered as the monster of the city or town of the little Sarah, strangled, raped and then thrown into a pit by his uncle.
bad. She sought only the sea.

And, with regard to this request of the sentence, of how it should be worth a negative opinion, in principle, must be given not only for the death penalty, which instantly deliver to you, delete it from the social consortium the figure of the offender, but also against the perpetual punishment: life imprisonment, that is void of any hope, any prospect of any solicitation to repentance and al ritrovamento del soggetto, appare crudele e disumano non meno di quanto lo sia la pena di morte.
Aldo Moro

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Fifteen €, traditional families and holograms

Wednesday, September 29

€ 15, including pre-sales.

means that a family-type, those used by unscrupulous pollsters in order to sell snacks of awakening - mom-dad-baby-girl - to cross the threshold of the sharp Zaccheria Sunday, will have to pay 60 €. Centoventimilalire as yet converted the elderly and those born in the seventies. To enjoy Zeman, of course. But the third category and an Italian Viareggio, with all due respect, it's not all I'm Milan. 60 €. It means skipping lunch, jump on the bandwagon with a broken line, push like mad trying to defend or to rescue the progeny, emerge into the turn, be searched, and try to get a place from which to see and show the kids the other kids in the camp, and after an hour ½ + range, be sure to have hiss of the equivalent three-month subscription to Mediaset Premium. Where do you see the magnificence in an armchair Serie A, Champions League and even the inutilissima Europe (perhaps with the addition of that extra touch of superfluous and HD).

families back to the stadium was the categorical imperative of Maroni, some time ago. One of those meaningless slogans that are such a hold on the collective imagination. The plow the groove track and the sword defends it. Yes, but by whom? It is a problem of agricultural borders? And the families at the stadium are the remedy for that? The panacea to such dysfunction? The term Hooligans, according to some readings, derives from the pestiferous young lady O'Hool woman-Irish mother in London. Basically it was built as O'Hool's gang, the gang of O'Hool, which seems to be the terror of an entire neighborhood. Gratuitous violence, then, or motivated by the context. Sure. But both mother's heart. A family, in essence, the hooligans. And the extended family, atypical, abnormal? Maroni parents think that the beautiful blonde of Mulino Bianco and blond, obedient, quiet children of brioche when pulls idyllic scenery coming next? And if you decide to "go back" to the stadium Quaker families, or those freak, or Scottish clan? It would be an error of assessment terrible, a painful mistake to underestimate the percentage of non-traditional families in this country. Sin of anti-modernity for a minister, living in the past. A pickle. A nice pair of adopted children with gay Spaniards in Manila? Pupo with his two wives and grandchildren? A Sultan of Brunei and his advisers?
What families should return to the stage, the ministerial circular does not specify.
But you know, this is the country where the award-divorced, adulterous, and regulars whoremongers trans organize the Family day and speaks to the masses from the stage to becoming frightened by contemporary manforte several ambiguous in a skirt and the scent of pedophilia. Clearly, a representative Republic Of this nutra disorders. And invent an increased attendance of sports facilities by a person who never set foot there. Historically, I say. Families who should "go back" to the stadium, the stadium there have never been. It is like asking the Penguins back in Savannah. Just look at the photo archive: no trace of penguins in Savannah. The stadium, the sports field, as potentially dangerous place but definitely foul-mouthed and instinctual, it was the prerogative of men. There was the head of the family and, right age and often against his will when he heard the call decided to take the firstborn, the heir, the Dauphin, in most cases after subtracting the long-lunch with the grandparents and females to wean in the cradle of masculinity: the curve. As long as the puppy did not leave the sample and the alpha field is initiated with the other puppies, which in the meantime had taken the form of the same street urchins who had driven the Nazis from Naples. Things have certainly changed for the better: women go there, and how, in turn. And also do better than men. But families, as will the Minister, no, no. Never existed. Especially if the presidents then placed at a 15 € coupon curve. In times of crisis.

Let's face it: the C1, or Pro League, has counted the years. Between failures, repechage, sharks and budgets in red, a couple of seasons, the third category is but a memory. In the most painful scenario of empty stadiums heightens the feeling of loss is as if you were a crew of saboteurs using scientifically day and night to destroy what still remained standing passion for their local teams. A handful of experts headhunters, perhaps in the pay league, maybe the pay-tv, maybe diverted masonry, constantly working to add more new barriers between the citizen-fan and the municipal structure (of which the citizen pays water , electricity, gas and rent) where you play the games. A perversion worthy of a better cause. At this point we would expect an enlightened entrepreneur, a boss determined to reverse the trend for not submit passively to the death of their company, while willing to make false papers to become sand in the engine system. One that crushed the competition by dramatically lowering ticket prices, giving the boys, saying deed: "Reclaim the sports ground of your town, fill your color, because the team is part of your identity." One like this, without playing well and claims to save on players, deserves appreciation for the simple fact of giving a secular tree sap and yet dying. Instead. The C1 is full of vapid holograms of higher series that managerial skills as they play the kids my age were playing marbles in the street. Mimicking Moratti Zamparini or even talk about TV rights, customize the stadiums, modernization, use half a dozen press agents (Cistercians were not even old grappling with flooded libraries or overestimating what they have to be provided), call upon experts to organize the official merchandise. The perfect new economy of bankruptcy. The football player, one that should appeal to families, as a complex mosaic tile in the Financial cardboard boxes between the Chinese iron and the fan, even if accompanied by parents, becomes a cash cow. Less and less sacred. And with fewer turns of phrase as an explanation. 15 €. When we asked them to take power we made ourselves crazy. We entered waving fake notes from 50 €. When we imposed them in Terni unrolled the banner "No to high prices."

did not happen long ago. Even if they look past decades. I agree.

Symptoms Of Warts In Throat

The large collective intelligence of small groups




From an article in SCIENCE of 04/10/2010:

If a group co-operates well, it can take advantage of a surplus of intelligence that exceeds the capacities of its individual members. To establish and a study by researchers at MIT, Carnegie Mellon University, and Union College, who sign about an article published in Science, which also shows that the tendency to cooperate effectively is in fact related to the number of women who are in the group.

"We wanted to test the hypothesis that groups as such, like people, have a considerable ability to deal with different types of tasks," said Anita Williams Woolley, the first signatory of the article. "And our hypothesis was confirmed. We found that there is generally effective, a collective group, which is predictive of group performance in many situations."

This collective intelligence, the researchers say, is closely linked to the ability to develop good co-operation: groups whose members had higher levels of "social sensitivity" were those that showed a higher collective intelligence.

"The social awareness has to do with the ability of group members to perceive the emotions of each member of the group. Thus, in groups where there was a dominant person, the group had a collective lower than those in which the relationship of conversation were distributed more evenly, "the researchers note. In general, moreover, the groups contained more women have a higher social sensitivity and a greater collective intelligence of those with fewer women.

To reach their conclusions, the researchers conducted a series of studies in 699 subjects divided into groups that included two to five people. The groups worked on a number of problems ranging from visual puzzle to negotiations, from brainstorming to role-playing games of varying complexity.

examination results of individual subjects and Researchers have estimated that the collective intelligence could account for about 40 percent of the variation in performance of different groups in a wide variety of tasks. The performance of the group does not seem determined primarily by the individual skills of its members, the maximum intelligence and the average of a group was not predictive of group performance. (Gg) ----------------

This, we believe it is a further indication of the operation of the network of UNCONSCIOUS we theorized. View: www.inconsci.blogspot.com

already know that (see our POST: http://nuoveteorie.blogspot.com/2009/06/lintelligenza-ei-domini-di-conoscenza.html)
man has evolved so much intellectual apes because we are only able to combine thoughts derived from different domains of knowledge to create new representations of the world and find new solutions to problems. An extreme example is provided by multidisciplinary genius of Leonardo da Vinci.

If now imagine that in a close-knit group and with high levels of "social sensitivity", the unconscious is put in communication with each other and can compare the individual domains of knowledge of each individual, it is clear that the chances of finding new solutions rise significantly (a parallel between a server computer that uses the data of individual computers to find more le soluzioni migliori). Se invece prevale un inconscio dominante, questo libero scambio emotivo (e quindi inconscio) non avviene. La presenza delle donne accentua poi lo stato di emotività sia per componenti sessuali inconsce, ma anche tra donne stesse, già geneticamente più predisposte a cooperare, a differenza degli individualismi maschili (e mi riferisco alle eredità sinaptiche dei tempi dei cacciatori-raccoglitori, quando le donne rimanevano, tutte insieme, nell'accampamento)

Questo meccanismo molto probabilmente è alla base delle grandi RIVELAZIONI ed ILLUMINAZIONI che certe persone ricevono nel loro inconscio (Gli antichi maestri induisti,Tao, Buddha, Mosè, Zaratustra, Mani, Maometto, Jung, etc...) These are the result of unconscious interactions of many people (even whole nations) that use individual knowledge and collectively develop new visions of reality. This explains the multiplicity of the thousands of religions and esoteric cults, often with conflicting teachings, but in any case different. This vision is also part of our new philosophical system of the network of unconscious result of the latest scientific knowledge and lessons for ages considered spiritual. At the time of lighting and pseudo-pseudo-revelations of the past, there were important conflicts between science and religion, because they were considered operating at different levels. Today, however, an alternative vision of reality, per essere più convincente e condivisa, necessita anche della mancanza di questi contrasti. Naturalmente, le precedenti visioni della realtà erano frutto di elaborazioni di domini di conoscenze collettivi più limitati.

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The Happening

Sunday, September 19, Foggia-Barletta 1-2

Twenty years from now who knows. Who knows how this game will be remembered.
Today, today it makes sense to say: "Twenty years ago I was there." And in the account to increase the regret of football that was and is no more. That kick-kindergarten, rude and collective unrestrained, unregulated part. The derby, the game par excellence, the waiting, lived a hundred times before the ball in the center, teams that emerge from the underpass. Without bringing it for long. Twenty years ago it was Foggia-Barletta. Today was, again, Foggia-Barletta. And certainly, as these words are (just) think and lined up an aseptic file, the hundred of my fellow citizens will still be enrolled in the closed area of \u200b\u200bthe old hall, while swarms of BARLETTANI they will be trying to make a living, vital, current practice other times. What is the rite as the letterhead of the document to Word 1989. Return home, those hundred, and say that there have been. There were when the Foggia Zeman and Illustrious won 2-1. No one can blame him. Moreover, the truth is always revolutionary. But the price we paid, the penalty we are serving, these things take time. Must historicize. Twenty years from now, maybe, maybe not quite remember this afternoon, or remember him as the cornerstone of a new era. From the TV - where a terrified Baldassarre commented that not even the pool - we heard the choruses. Barletta in a cross, and Barletta piece of shit, and your hands whenever you like. The entire repertoire, in fact. There were certainly held, our members. How to Lancaster, after all, but this was not Lanciano. It was the game, the most important of all. And the voice was something different: it was less improvised, less casual, less pilgrim. Needless to pretend: I was at the station, this morning. I could not not stand the tension of having to stay at home while I felt like something important happened in five minutes from my room. I saw the faces, we also talked a bit '. Certainly not young students to the first trip out of town, it's recognized. Indeed. And that still hurts the most. Why do not expect a turnaround so blatant on the part of those who should cord with you. And that the reasons for someone standing, but the overall picture does not hold the same. At two o'clock in the afternoon Foggia was a city on the anxiety-only machines. At the wheel of the familiar faces, those you know, those dispossessed of steps, the group of choirs. Everything. It looked like a scene from candid. Looking for a television, a group which share an enthusiasm that fake mask, the eyes of those less accustomed to understand things human, the acute pain of not being there. To know that twenty friends of the curve, along with eighty neophytes, they took the train at 12:10, surrounded by policemen, traffic wardens and Digos. And they crushed - as was normal - all that remained standing of our hopes of stopping the mechanism. Out of the game, almost permanently. And as Claudio Villa, news of whose death came during the final of a Sanremo, we too have been annihilated in the day of the derby. The most important day of all. Power of symbols. It's easy, easy for someone twenty years can tell me, like this morning: "Twenty years ago I was there." I was present, the day when everything changed. When the groups that had sustained the shock of fifteen years of anonymity and C2 remained at home, to be supplanted by one that Occhetto would not hesitate to call again "thing." Castellammare will jump, then Gela, then Rome. I do not know what will happen to Pisa, when I make my debut in the league, in the field next to people who already have 3 or 4 trips over her shoulders. From a cardholder, of course, but this - in twenty years - would not bother anyone anymore. They say that the troops at Agincourt, Henry V of England humiliated the French cavalry because the noble and the vulgar plebeians allowed to attack the enemy knights, in fact breaking the code of honor that prevents you from doing some havoc. They won infamy for short, the British. But today, at any history book, no one would find words of condemnation for that behavior. At Agincourt the English won, it says. A Barletta Foggia won one hundred. Stop. What has changed? For posterity will judge. But I'm still a contemporary of these events, and I say that I had to throw down five glasses of rum dry to bear the sight of that stadium on a plastic chair. I sucked the chorus of those hundred, I hated the idea of \u200b\u200bnot having perspective that grips me for a year and more. But at the same time I felt genuine sorrow and disgust at the stadium half-empty, for the inconsistency of our opponents, who had guaranteed - and is not the first time they do - fire and brimstone and I hardly felt. Sure, it's TV. But god, I thought, this is a derby? This is the derby? The derby, as they are accustomed to it, is an ordeal that takes place in a bowl on fire, where the stands reversed the sense of things and become the real show, the center of the hubbub. And it is the God of hosts to determine who is worthy of victory. Today - impassively in a chair drinking Pampero - I'm pissed off just because our goalkeeper came out to the trocar with your hands and why do you constantly Zeman cut vertically. For things like that, who live even known. When will this nightmare I'll probably go back to going through the songs, but I sincerely hope that this will happen soon. Why not enjoy myself more. And the faces of my comrades, expressionless and fixed on the screen at the final whistle, when they had to dance naked and drunk on the tables, shows that I'm not alone.